


RENT - A Very Supernatural Musical

by AlreadyPainfullyGone



Category: Rent, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, M/M, Multi, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlreadyPainfullyGone/pseuds/AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Based pretty heavily on the musical RENT, that is, the movie version. Each chapter is named for a song, so, if you feel like having the musical accompaniment, hit youtube. I won't be putting all the lyrics in, and the characters won't sing, as this is more of a plot-AU. </p><p>For those that don't know, a plot synopsis: Sam and Dean occupy an apartment that they are about to be evicted from, due to lack of rent money. Though in the grand scheme of things, this isn't really their most pressing problem. Dean is HIV positive, and about to fall for the junkie stripper downstairs, and Sam is fighting to get over his ex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rent/You'll See

**Author's Note:**

> Songs for this Chapter - Rent and You'll See - from the musical, RENT.

“How do you leave the past behind  
When it keeps finding ways to get to your heart?  
It reaches way down deep and tears you inside out  
'Til you're torn apart, rent

How can you connect in an age  
Where strangers, landlords, lovers  
Your own blood cells betray?

What binds the fabric together  
When the raging, shifting winds of change  
Keep ripping away”

“Have you seen this?” Sam demands, flinging the sliding loft door closed and depositing his camera down on the side table. The eviction notice is wet from the rain outside, hanging from his hand like a dead rat.

“No Sam, I just walk around with my freaking eyes closed.” Dean calls from across the loft, precariously balanced on the back of their mangy couch.

“I can’t believe he’d do this, it’s Christmas eve!”

“It’s Crowley. I can believe it. He’s probably out pissing on the homeless and setting fire to department store Santas the city over.” He puts his guitar aside and draws his jacket closer around himself. “And since when is the heat off?”

“The power’s off,” Sam demonstrates by unnecessarily flicking the lights on and off, or rather, he flicks the switch and nothing happens.

“Fucking...that asshole. Well, at least our corpses will freeze to the floor,” Dean punches the air, “chisel me out now bitches!”

“You should write a song about that.”

Dean gives him the finger. “Get something for dinner?”

“Last night’s egg rolls?”

Dean makes a gagging noise.

“Or we could see what Benny brings over, he said he’d stop buy, let us know how the job search was going.”

“Probably not good.” Dean sighs. “Get anything interesting shot today?”

“Same old bread lines and homeless guys. I’m starting to think we’re luck to have this dump.”

“This expensive dump – we owe Crowley the last year in rent, that’s over $7,000.”

“Over by a lot.”

“Math isn’t my strong suit.”

“Neither’s song writing. Seriously, how long’s it been now?” Sam said pointedly, going to get the egg rolls, because he’s not proud.

“I’m getting to something,” Dean protests, carefully getting off the couch and going to get one of their few remaining beers. “Seriously, where the hell is Benny? He was supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

“Must have gotten busy.”

Dean snorted. “Seems likely,” he sighed and looked around at the peeling paint, flaking plaster and splintered wooden beams of the loft. Everything seemed to be crumbling down into tinier and tinier pieces. “We shouldn’t even have to pay to live here man, especially not since Crowley fucking told us we could have it rent free. And how many times did we loan him cash? How many damn times did I pick up his tab, before he started screwing Dick’s daughter.”

Sam stamped his feet. “Fuck, it’s freezing in here. The guy’s an asshole, but he’s going to get his, there’s a protest scheduled for the end of the week.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “This wouldn’t be Gabriel’s protest now, would it?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

Dean sighed. “Dude, give it up. He’s dating Kali now, straight as a freaking arrow. You need to find yourself a nice gay guy, with a clean shirt and a better track record with monogamy.”

“What I need is the feeling back in my hands,” Sam said, he went to the long bench that served as their kitchen counter. “How much do we need all these old flyers and...are these my screen plays?”

“I needed something to put some lyrics down on.”

“On my plays?!”

“It’s not like you’re ever going to do anything with them. Come on Sam -  ‘Seasons of Love’?  what, do you dream of writing for lifetime movies?”

Sam scrunched up a handful of the papers and tossed them into the metal garbage can that Dean had stolen last time they’d had the money to go out drinking.

“What are you doing?”

“Saving us from the next ice age.” Sam filled the trash can and took Dean’s lighter from the counter. “Merry Christmas.”

The trash can fire turned out to be reasonably cosy, at least until the room started to fill up with smoke, then they had to drag it out to the balcony. The wind took hold of the flaming pages and took them up into the air, over the street below.

Standing just behind the ice rimed window, they watched the flaming pages flutter and fall to the dark, neon streaked asphalt.

“You think we’ll really have to leave?” Sam asked after a while.

“Looks likely.” Dean sighed. “But hey, miracles happen, right? Maybe. I think I read that somewhere.”

“We could always...”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“’We could always move back in with Mom and Dad’ that’s what you were going to say.” Dean turned and raised his eyebrow. “You know how that’s gonna go. You can go back, but I’d rather stay here.”

“Dean, you wouldn’t have to.”

“I like the city,” Dean shrugged, examining the perpetually chipped black polish on his nails. “Besides...I don’t want to have to...you know, I don’t want them to know.”

Sam wishes this didn’t keep coming between them, that it didn’t feel as if Dean was on the other side of the subway tracks, too far away to reach, or worse, standing right in the middle, with a speeding train headed right for him.

“They know that Lisa had it, when she died, he parents told people.”

“Yeah, but right now they don’t know about me...or about,” Dean rubbed his arm, where the faded pinprick scars still occasionally itched. “I’d rather they didn’t. We can just pretend...pretend it’s all fine.”

Sam knows there’s no point arguing. And Dean is fine. Sometimes, not for very long, but sometimes, Sam forgets that his brother is sick. Of course, Benny’s sick too, that’s how Dean met him, at the support group in the church basement three blocks over.

From the apartment below, there’s a faint sound of singing.

“Someone’s having a good time, power or no power.” Dean said lightly.

“I’d better get some candles,” Sam said, “the corner market’s still open around now, right?”

“I can go.”

“No, I want to walk a bit, just to get some feeling into my feet,” Sam said, “you just, try and come up with at least a song title while I’m gone.” Sam grabbed his wallet from the table and headed for the door.

“You can’t rush art,” Dean called after him.

“It’s not art ‘til you get something done.”

Sam slid the door closed and started down the dingy stairs, on the way down he passed a scruffy guy in jeans and an open knit sweater. At the doorway to the building he almost froze at the sight of Crowley’s new BMW parked on the curb.

“Sam, it’s good to see you,” Crowley said, as Sam pushed the door open defiantly and stared him down.

“What do you want?”

“You mean aside from my rent?”

“Yeah, because threatening us in person makes us less broke.” He shook his head, “you broke your freaking word, asshole.”

“Hey,” Crowley offered him an amenable gesture, “I can still keep my word, if you’re interested in doing me a favour.”

Sam knew what Dean would say. He’d actually written a song with the very title when they were in their teens. So Sam knew exactly how to respond.

“Screw-off ass douche.”

Crowley looked vaguely amused. “Now Sam, I know you and your brother need somewhere to live while you’re pursuing your hick town music and directorial dreams, so I’ll make this easy. You get your ex to cancel his protest, I get my brand new Cyber studio in the building across the street once all the evictions go through, and you and Dean get to keep Casa Del Poverty Line. Sound like a deal?”

Sam blinked at him. That’s what all this was about? A cyber technology studio?

“Get lost.” He started towards the corner market. How had he ever thought Crowley was his friend?

“There’s always the streets, eh, Sam?” Crowley called after him. “Think about it.”


	2. Light My Candle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter Light my Candle from RENT

Why don't you forget that stuff?  
You look like you're sixteen  
I'm nineteen, but I'm old for my age  
I'm just born to be bad

I once was born to be bad  
I used to shiver like that  
I have no heat, I told you

I used to sweat  
I got a cold  
Uh huh, I used to be a junkie  
But now and then I like to  
Uh huh  
Feel good

Dean is holding his guitar, that totally counts as working. No matter what Sam says.  Or how often Sam says it.

He sighs. It’s easy for Sam. Sam lives for his work, pretty much eats, sleeps and breathes celluloid, but, since Lisa died, since their band fell apart and he got clean, he hasn’t been able to write a damn thing. Which is pretty fucking ironic, because if anything should make you a better emo song writer, it’s the idea that you’re dying slowly but surely.

Fuck. Now he’s thinking about it. Never a good start. He gets up and paces around the apartment, trying to put words together. It’s useless, all he can hear is the last song he and Lisa wrote together. A lifetime ago. Back when he was high all the time, when life had sharp edges and a blurry centre, back when he’d been so in love with her, with their life, that he could taste it. Feel it in every cell, every nerve.

What he wants now is a song that will be bigger than all that, bigger than him, somehow. A song that people will remember longer than they’d ever remember him. Something to leave behind. Something worthwhile.

The sound of the door opening jolts him out of his thoughts.

“What’d you forget?” he turns and sees that it’s not Sam at the door, but the dude from downstairs, the guy who sings at night, sometimes.  When he’s not trying to lure in stray cats. Dean hears him sometimes on the balcony below, talking to whatever bird or feline that has managed to stray into their neighbourhood, where there isn’t a tree or patch of dirt as far as anyone can see. He’s got a weird hippie sweater on over a blue tshirt. Jeans, but no shoes.

“Hey, got a light?” He holds up a candle, one of the cheap ones like they sell at the corner market.

“I know you?” Dean says.

The guy shrugs, steps into the apartment, looks around like a cat in a new home.

“You’re shivering,” Dean says.

“They turned off the heat...can you light this?”

The lighter is on the counter where Sam left it, Dean picks it up and flicks it open, lighting the candle. The small, orange, flame lights up the other man’s face, and Dean can see from the thick stubble and the glassy shine to his eyes that he’s on something. Something that Dean knows only too well.

The light trembles.

“You’re shaking.”

The guy shrugs. “Haven’t eaten today.”

“Seriously, where do I know you from?”

He smiles, a big, unfocused grin. “People always think they know me. I always remind someone of someone.”

“Just...I don’t know, maybe I know you from around?”

He tilts his head, still smiling. “You ever go to the White Swallow?”

Dean has in fact been to the White Swallow. Benny took him on the night that the trash can mysteriously followed him back to the apartment.

“I dance there,” the guys says, then crosses his wrists, “handcuffs?”

Dean swallows. Oh yeah, he remembers that.

There’s a sheen of sweat on the guy’s skin, and Dean knows for sure what it is that’s got him twitching like a bag of cats on a hotplate.

“You should forget that stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Don’t bullshit me. How old are you anyway, sixteen?”

“I’m nineteen, and old for my age,” he says confidentially, “besides, it’s nice to feel good. Sometimes.”

Dean wouldn’t know. It’s been a long time.

A draught snuffs out the candle and Dean turns away, goes back to the couch. “Anyway, I guess maybe I’ll see you at the protest? You’re going right, I mean, they’re going to kick us all out so you might as well.”

A shrug. “Maybe.” The guy comes closer, sits down next to him on the couch, “borrow your lighter again?”

Dean takes it from his pocket, reluctantly lights the candle.

“I have a bit with me,” the guys says.

Dean shakes his head.

“You sure?”

Dean nods. “I’m sure.”

The guy slips a hand into his pocket, then curses. “Damn, must’ve dropped it.”

He gets up, takes the candle with him, and Dean follows, eyes trained on the floor for the familiar sight of the little baggie of powder. Figures he’d give that shit up just to have it walk back into his life on two legs. As the guy goes down onto hands and knees to look under the kitchen bench, Dean amends this to ‘two legs, and a very fine ass’.

“Best ass below 14th street,” the guy says, as if reading his mind, he looks back over his shoulder, “you’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“S’ok. You can stare.”

Dean stares, he can’t help it, then his eyes find the little baggie, just a few inches from his foot. He bends, grabs it, and has it in his back pocket before the guy looks around again.

“Find it?”

“No, just a candy wrapper...my brother’s kind of a pig.”

The guy gets up, and the candle gutters and goes out.

“Lighter’s out of gas,” Dean says.

“There’s always the moon.”

“Actually, I think that’s a spotlight, I heard Spike Lee’s shooting something down the street. Sam’s gonna be all over that in the morning. Losing his nerd shit.”

They look at each other, and the guy’s smile reminds him of Lisa. The moonlight, if that’s what it is, paints him in a pale halo, and in the semidarkness the shaking and the sweat is blotted out. Only the intensity of his dark eyes remains. And hey, Dean’s bent that way for less, but he can’t, not now. Now that he has to be careful.

“I’m Dean,” he says, just to be polite, feeling at the same time miserable, because this is about as close as he can bring himself to get to another person now.

“Everyone calls me Cassy,” the guy says, takes a step forwards and brings them almost nose to nose. Dean’s breath catches, “Castiel. Cassy...” his hand slips into Dean’s back pocket, and he holds up the little baggie waving it between their eyes, then he swings around and heads for the door, taking his candle, his stash, his heat, with him.

“Cas.” Dean says, to himself, splintering both names into something that fits the creature that just left him in the dark.

The door slides closed, and Dean sits down in the cold and the quiet. His guitar laying silent on the couch.


	3. Today for You, Tomorrow for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter Today for you, Tomorrow for me.

 It was my lucky day today on Avenue A When a lady in a Limousine drove my way She said, "Darling, be a dear, haven't slept in a year I need your help to make my neighbor's yappy dog disappear"

"This Akita-Evita just won't shut up I believe if you play nonstop that pup Will breathe its very last high strung breath I'm certain that cur will bark itself to death"

Today for you, tomorrow for me Today for you, tomorrow for me We agreed on a fee, a thousand dollar guarantee Tax free and a bonus if I trim her tree

Now who could foretell that it would go so well But sure as I am here that dog is now in doggy hell After an hour, Evita in all her glory On the window ledge of that twenty third story

Like Thelma and Louise did When they got the blues Swan dove into the courtyard Of the Gracie Mews

Christmas morning, Dean wakes up with a headache and makes it to the living room just in time to hear the phone ring. He doesn’t answer of course, he has to be in a very specific mood to handle talking to his parents, and this, today, is not it. He’s still thinking about Cas - skinny, shivering, sweating Cas, with his baggie of smack. Fuck, he doesn’t want to be thinking about. Doesn’t want to admit it to Sam either.

“Merry Christmas Boys! Your Father and I send our love, and also a hotplate, it should be with you soon, if it wasn’t delivered already. Just remember not to leave it on when you go out! See you soon!”

Dean opened the fridge, remembered there was no power, and sniffed the milk dubiously. It seemed OK, but really, how could you tell?

“Sammy, you want some milk?”

“Uh...sure,” Sam came out of his bedroom, pulling his bathrobe on over jeans and a sweater. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

“I know,” Dean poured out a glass of milk and handed it over, “I think at one point my balls froze together.”  


“Ew.”

“Ew balls, or ew, this milk tastes funny?”

“Balls.”

“Cool,” Dean doused his cereal in milk and stirred it. “Guess I should be rationing this, it is Christmas lunch and dinner after all.”

“I was thinking we could go out for lunch.”

“By we, do you mean me, you and my empty wallet?”

“Touche.”

Someone banged on the door.

“Ugh, if that’s Crowley tell him there’s three cents in an ashtray on the balcony, and he can have them, if he blows me and my frozen balls.”

Sam went for the door, “well, last night he said we could stay here if we got Gabriel to call his protest off.”

“Fucking asshole,” Dean said, thought a mouthful of rainbow pebbles.

Sam slid the door open to find Benny on the other side, flat cap drawn down over an impressive black eye.

“Woah, Jesus, what happened?”

“Language, and on Christmas, your mother must be proud,” Benny came in and threw off his coat. “Got jumped by some punks in the alley behind the building last night.”

“Fuck,” Dean put down his cereal bowl, “sorry dude, I should’ve gone out looking for you when you didn’t show.”

Benny waved him off. “It’s fine, besides, I had some help in the end.”

Through the open door came the strangest person Dean had seen that week (he did after all live near a performance space, in New York, in a bad neighbourhood). He, or, she, it was hard to tell, was wearing a red velvet coat with white fur trim, black patent boots with killer platforms, a matching miniskirt and short black wig.

“This, is Miss Fizzles,” Benny said.

“Merry Christmas!” she said.

Sam was pretty sure she was also Garth from the subway station, who played the pickle tub drums for quarters, but hey, who was he to comment? He was just impressed that Garth, Miss Fizzles, whoever she was, could walk in those heels.

“And, in addition to picking my ass up off the street and loaning me an icepack, for the fucked up side of my face, she also sprung for some booze,” Benny dug in his messenger bag and pulled out a bottle of vodka. “And I have cheese crackers, camembert and a nice pate.”

As he unloaded the bag, Dean raised his eyebrows. “Did you start turning tricks, or did you actually get a teaching job?”

“Negative on the job Brother, my reputation precedes me, unfortunately, no, Missy here’s the one with the cash.” Benny settled himself on the couch.

‘Missy’ had taken a short tour around the living room and now came to rest at Benny’s side, sliding unselfconsciously into his lap. They rubbed noses.

Dean felt the familiar ‘ew, couples’ stirring in his gut. There were times when he thought he’d go crazy without someone to wake up to that wasn’t his annoying kid brother. Times, like last night, when, lying in the freezing cold, he’d almost snapped and gone downstairs, just to lie in the warm with someone. It’d been so long since he’d touched someone. Not since Lisa.

“So, Miss, uh, Fizzles? How’d you earn the money?” Sam asked, “you have to be the only one of us with a job.”

“Oh, I don’t have a job,” she grinned, “I earned it yesterday, just did a job for some lady I met on the street.”

“What kind of...” Dean asked.

“Sort of...accidently murdered someone’s dog.” Missy shrugged, “now, who’s going to open that cheese, I am star-ving.”

They had the camembert half finished when the phone started ringing again.

“Let the machine pick it up.” Sam said.

“Mom and Dad already called,” Dean said, “they’re sending a hot plate.”

“Oh, cool. We could probably pawn it and get the power switched back on. Course, then we wouldn’t have anything to cook on.”

“There’s always the garbage can, if they start distributing all those free phone books again. Plenty of fuel.”

The message ended and a familiar voice filled the apartment.

“Sammy! Hey, it’s me, listen kiddo, I’m in a jam here, there’s a problem with the microphones here and...well, you were always my best sound engineer. Please come help me? I’ll be really, really grateful.”

The call ended and Dean threw a cracker at his brother.

“If you go, you might as well cut off your balls and gift-wrap them for him.”

“Who was it?” Fizzles asked.

“Gabriel.” Benny, Dean and Sam said darkly.

“He’s Sam’s ex. Ran off with Kali, the lawyer, broke Sam’s heart and stamped all over it with his freakishly small feet,” Dean said.

“I should probably go look at the set up over there,” Sam said, “I mean, it’s a protest for all of us, isn’t it?”

He was met with two pairs of sceptical eyes, and one concerned look.

“I’ll only be gone an hour,” he said, jumping up and grabbing his jacket, “thanks for the cheese Miss Fizzles.”

“You’re welcome.”

He dashed out the door.

“Don’t forget to put a bow on your balls before you hand them over.” Dean shouted.

“Hey, what’s that?” Benny asked, looking at the window.

Dean turned and saw that someone had written on the panes with their finger, ‘Xmas brunch? Just us – Cassy.’

“Oh, that’s...just the guy downstairs, he stopped by yesterday.”

“Cute?” Benny asked.

“Cute, high, jailbait, stripper - the unholy quadrangle.”

Benny whistled. “You interested?”

“Can’t afford to be messing with that stuff, not worth it. I mean, going through detox again? Almost died the first fucking time.” Dean got up and went to the defunct refrigerator, “Anyone want a beer?”

“I’m good,” Benny said, “listen, Missy and I are going to a meeting today, over at the church...you know, life support.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Was wondering if you wanted to come with?”

“Why the hell is there even a meeting on Christmas day?”

Fizzles shrugged. “Some people don’t have anywhere to go.”

Well, that was a kick in the stomach. And it wasn’t as if Dean had anywhere to be either. Aside from ‘brunch’ with the teenage junkie downstairs.

“OK, I’ll come with.”


	4. Out Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter (in order) - The Tango Maureen, Out Tonight, No Day But Today

 The 'Tango Maureen'  
Gotta dance 'til your diva is through  
You pretend to believe her 'cause in the end  
You can't leave her

But the end it will come  
Still you have to play dumb  
'Til you're glum and you bum  
And turn blue

Why do we love when she's mean?  
And she can be so obscene  
My Maureen, the 'Tango Maureen'

A half hour walk through the homeless camp behind the apartment buildings and up through skid row where the performance space is located, and what does he find? Not, as he’d hoped, Gabriel with an apology and a grovelling plea for forgiveness – but someone who can only be Kali, every bit as gorgeous as he’d feared in a red pantsuit and black wool coat, perfect to keep out the chill of the vast, graffiti covered warehouse.

“Sam?”

“Yeah...uh, Kali?”

She purses her mouth. “I told him not to call you. I have an engineer on the way.”

Hot and a bitch. Gabriel’s type all over. “Great, I’ll just get going then.”

He turns and is about to go back and face the ‘I told you sos’ at home, when she calls out.

“He’s three hours late.”

Reluctantly, he goes back towards the stage, where leaps of speakers, old TVs and radios are stacked under a huge crescent moon made of hubcaps draped in fairy lights.

“What’s the problem?”

“The microphone won’t reverb, which, apparently, it’s supposed to.” She crossed her arms. “This isn’t really my forte.”

“It’s not Gabriel’s either, given the chance he’d probably try and fix it with electrical tape and gum.” He climbs up onto the stage and takes a look at the mess of cables attached to the microphone. Jesus, who the hell put that together?

He drags out the tangled cables and starts checking their connects, becoming more aware with every passing second that Kali, standing over him in her spike heels, is assessing him, wondering what Gabriel ever saw in him. Sam doesn’t blame her, it’s not like he hasn’t done the same thing for the past few months, every time he passed a mirror.

“This is weird,” he says, after fifteen tense minutes.

“Very. I’ve been freezing here for over three hours and now you’re here. Not really what I saw myself doing today.”

“Yeah, he kind of has that effect.”

There’s a short silence. Then, “What do you mean?”

“Just, it’s Gabriel, you know? He just does shit like this and gets away with it -  just calls you sweetie, gets you naked and makes you forget why you had the right to be mad.”

“He’s not like that with me.”

“OK, well, consider it just my experience.”

“I will.”

“Just...if he turns up with a bottle of Moet and a sudden interest in snuggling? He’s done something awful and is probably about to dump your ass.”

She snorted.

“Well, that’s how I found out about you.”

Kali doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Sam fiddles with the cables for a moment longer, then gets up. “There,” speaking into the microphone he says, “patched.”

It reverbs and fills the warehouse.

“Give him my best.” Sam says, jumping from the stage and feeling his cheeks burn as he heads for the door.

-*-*-

What's the time?  
Well it's gotta be close to midnight  
My body's talking to me  
It says, Time for danger

It says, I wanna commit a crime  
Wanna be the cause of a fight  
I wanna put on a tight skirt  
And flirt with a stranger

Christmas or no Christmas, there are always people around the stage come showtime.

  
Castiel is glad that there are a few people out, after all, people mean money. Besides, he likes the performing, the singing, the way people call out to him while he goes through his routine. OK, they’re here because they like the look of his ass in a set of suspenders, but they still want him. It’s always nice to feel wanted.

And he’s good at his job, at dancing. Flexible enough to do the floor work, can kick his leg right up almost over his head, can straddle a rail with a kick, flash his panties and swing up the scaffold to the stage, all in razor sharp heels.  Who else can roll around the stage, squat, crawl, and slip dollar bills into their stocking tops while making it all look seamless and easy?

Of course, if he starts shaking before he goes on, that ruins the whole appeal, but he’s careful to keep a little with him, so he’s never out of sorts when he has to work. Never too far gone either, because he needs a clear head to get through the whole routine start to finish. Just like, when he’s prowling the edge of the stage, taking tips and drinks from the patrons, he never has too much, never gets drunk. He’s smart.

There’s no one in the crowd tonight that he wants to look at, particularly. Dean hasn’t been back since the first and only time Castiel saw him there, looking miserable beside the big, gruff southern guy, one of the customers who, while not a regular, appears enough for Castiel to at least remember his face.

After work, he changes into jeans, a shirt and his big open weave sweater. Humming in the street, he can’t get the songs from the stage out of his head, every set of headlights is a spotlight, the flashing of the mirror ball, the rush of shouting and catcalls from the bar echoes through him. He’s buzzingbuzzingbuzzing and how can he sleep? How can he lie still when the world’s awake, the world’s out! Out all night, out to play.

In his apartment he throws down his keys and opens the window, climbs out onto the fire escape and looks out at the city, all lit up and pretty. He reaches up, lets his fingers play over his throat, shivers at the touch, his skin alive and buzzing like his head.

Looking up at the ladder he starts to hum again.

“You're sweet, wanna hit the street? Wanna wail at the moon like a cat in heat?  Just take me out tonight”

 

-*-*-

The meeting is everything Dean was afraid it would be. Like twelve step without the hope. Benny and Missy take chairs together, and he sits on Benny’s other side, looking around at the rest of the circle of ordinary looking people who for some reason, some crappy, twisted up version of fate, have this one thing in common with him. He wonders how many of them used to shoot up, or if they’re gay, or just fucking unlucky.

Someone has put up paper chains and a kids painting of a Christmas tree that looks more like a green  toilet brush with a star on top is pasted to the door. There’s a blackboard on the wall, and it feels like school, even smells kind of the same, like bleach and old shoes and sandwiches left in lockers.

“Welcome back,” some guy with grey hair says to Benny, and Benny smiles, says, “Hey Zack.”

Everyone else is introduced by their first names only, Ruby, Bella, Adam, Zeke, Rufus and a college kid called Kevin. Dean slouches in his chair and tries not to look at anyone too closely, he doesn’t want to get trapped into conversation.

It feels like the meeting lasts forever, and by the time they’re done discussing T-cells and their partners, and their families work, how their meds are working, and they’re  doing their little empowerment chant at the end, he wants to tip his chair over and run.

“There's only us,There's only this,Forget regret-- or life is yours to miss, No other road,No other way,No day but today.”

And now he’s thinking of Lisa, about how she had those words stuck on her refrigerator, even when she was hardly getting through ‘today’. And in the middle of the circle of chairs he suddenly sees the black hole that’s sucking them all down, day after day. How dark it is, how deep, and all that’s in there is quiet and blindness.

Benny’s hand on his shoulder snaps him out of it.

“You already brother?”

“Yeah...uh, how about we get a drink?”

“It’s Christmas, nothing’s open.”

“Shit,” Dean rubs a hand over his face, “well, there’s the rest of that vodka, right? Want to come back and finish it off with me?”

“Missy and I were gonna go back to mine, see if we can get my TV to show the afternoon movie, curl up and stay warm.”

Dean manages a smile. “Go ahead, Sam’ll be home by now anyway.”

Only, when he gets back to the apartment, Sam isn’t home. It’s all quiet and cold. He takes a few gulps of the vodka, not bothering  to take his jacket off because it’s colder inside than out. From down the block he can just see the faint glow of the neons outside the White Swallow, so somewhere’s open on Christmas. He can’t imagine there’s a big crowd tonight though, what with everyone either at home with their families or tying nooses out of their bed sheets.

For a moment he thinks about going over there, watching Cas dance, having a beer and being around some people who don’t know him, and who don’t give a shit anyway. But he doesn’t have the five dollars for the door, and anyway, he can’t be around Cas, he knows that.

In the end he takes the legal pad out from under the couch and starts doodling, thinking up lyrics for songs that he can’t quite force onto paper. He finishes the vodka and picks up his guitar, strums it lightly and settles on the kitchen counter to play.

And that’s when he hears the tap on his window.


	5. Another Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter Another Day, Will I

Take your powder, take your candle  
Your sweet whisper, I just can't handle

Long ago, you might've lit up my heart  
But the fire's dead, ain't never ever gonna start  


Dean looks at him for a moment, watches as Castiel taps the glass, eyes fixed on him. His appearance was so sudden that Dean’s half convinced it’s just a mirage caused by alcohol and too much thought on his part. But no, there is a real life, stripper junkie at his window, his hair spiked up and dark against his too pale skin, shivering in that thin, cobweb mess of a sweater.

He puts the guitar aside and goes over to the thin window that always trembles in the wind, tugs the stiff lever down and lets it swing open.

Cas blinks at him as if it’s perfectly normal that he’s on a fifth floor fire escape in the small hours, shivering.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” are the first words out of Dean’s mouth as Cas slips past him into the apartment. “I’m busy, and it’s late, and you don’t freaking live here.”

“Well, I know that,” Castiel looks around at the candles that Dean’s lit to 1. Light up the place and 2. Generate a little heat. “But I thought you might want company and...I wanted company.”

He reaches out and runs a hand up Dean’s arm, his skin like ice. Dean jumps and sets his jaw, but doesn’t push him away.

“You need to leave,” he waves towards the door, “no need to break your neck, door’s that way.” He paces back to his guitar, tries to look busy.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Truthfully? No. He’s not sure. In the gold and silver of candles and moonlight, Cas looks like something otherworldly, and Dean wants company, badly. He misses being touched, being with someone, and really there’s nothing more he wants than to take Castiel to the mattress in his part of the loft, leaving a trail of clothes behind them. Churn out some heat the old fashioned way.

“What if tonight was your last night?” Castiel says teasingly.

That catches him, and anger flares in him, feeding on his loneliness. “Listen, _kid_ , take yourself, and your smack, and get out.”

Castiel extracts a baggie from the front pocket of his jeans, holds it up. “This? Are you sure?”

He stares at him in stony silence. Castiel shrugs and slides the baggie away. “We don’t have to...it’s not like we’d need it to have fun.”

“Not happening.”

Castiel sighs, “I like you, you know that? I really do. You’re not like the other guys I know.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“But I want to, and that’s what makes you different,” he’s on his way to the door and Dean just watches him go, with his hand on the handle, Castiel turns back and looks at him, “if it was just this, just tonight...would you?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but Castiel nods as if he has, and closes the door softly behind him.

Letting the guitar slide from his hand, Dean sits down on the couch, looking at the moonlight stripe the floor. Another day, and he just might have said yes. What was he resisting, really? He was going to die sooner or later anyway, what was the point in doing it clean and sober (or, sober in the way that counted for him) if he was alone?

In that moment he wants Sam so badly he can hardly stand it, he needs Sam to remind him what it was he sweated and puked and shivered and screamed and cried through, what it was for.

Because, alone and cold and without anything but the chill of Cas’s hand on his arm, he doesn’t know that it was worth it.

Because, if Sam isn’t here, tonight, who’s to say he’ll be around at the end? When it really is the end, and Dean’s all alone in a hospital or hospice? What if tonight really is all there is?

“Dean?” The door eases open and Sam comes in, unwinding his scarf and shedding his beanie.

“Here.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem.”

“I met Kali and fixed up the freaking microphones...but then I just needed a while to get my head straight and...anyway, I’m back and I brought fresh take-out.”

“Sweet.”

Sam scans the empty bottles on the table, the guitar off to one side with the legal pad, all covered in crossings out and black slashes so think they’ve torn through the paper.

“You OK?”

Dean shrugs. “Just...bored, you know? Plus, it’s not exactly cozy in here.”

“I’ll go get my blankets, we can camp out in here with the food.”

“Or build a fort.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s sad that soon your fort building skills might be the only thing between us and the streets.”

“Hey, we could share with Missy and Benny, make it a two storey fort with window boxes and some really high tech sound proofing.”

Sam shakes his head, returning with an armful of blankets. “How was the meeting by the way?”

Dean shrugs. “Full of 12 step bullshit and talk of an afterlife filled with hookers and blow.”

“Did you go to the right meeting?”

Dean snorts. “I was kidding. It was...sad. Crappy and sad.”

He’s taken by surprise when Sam comes across the room and wraps his arms around him in a too tight hug. Feeling Sam huff air on his neck makes his squirm. “Any reason why you’re extra gay this evening?”

Sam just gives him a squeeze and lets go, picks up the cartons of food and brings them back to the couch. “I thought, maybe the group would help you, I don’t know...seize the day, or something.”

“Right, because it’s all about today, right?” Dean sighs, “better get moving before I run out of fucking ‘now’ – Jesus Sam, it’s Christmas, it’s like two in the morning, even the strippers are asleep, and we’re eating ‘Wong Fu’s wok scrapings’ – this is not the now I want to live in.”

Sam smiles reluctantly.

“C’mon Sammy, I’ll get by, I’ll ‘live’ – but tomorrow, another day, OK?”

“OK.”

“And you need to get your head out of my ass and start worrying about yourself, because seriously, if you don’t get laid soon I’m going to sell your dick on the black market and buy some goddamn gas lamps with the cash.”

“I’ll try and get out more...if you come to the protest with me tomorrow.”

“Watch Gabriel rip the piss out of Crowley while dressed up in tinsel and stray cats, or whatever it is he’s putting together? I wasn’t intending to miss it.”

“Good,” Sam spooled up some noodles, “because downstairs Castiel-”

“To give him his full name.”

“Is going to be there, and I thought you might wuss out on me.”

Dean glares. “I don’t wuss.”

“Good, because afterwards we’re going to that bar around the corner from the performance space, and you can buy the first round.”

“With the proceeds from your dick?”

“With the money you’ve been keeping in your sock drawer,” Sam says knowingly, “beer is more important than new records.”

“Hey, who’s to say that isn’t rent money?”

“I am,” Sam says, “because 1. You would rather lop off an arm and eat it than give Crowley a single cent,”

“True.”

“And 2. $30 isn’t going to make a dent in what we owe.”

“It’d make a dent in the bargain bin at the record store.”

“If you want ABBA singles and copies of the Grease soundtrack.”

“Urgh,” Dean groans, “fine, I’ll go, I’ll buy the beer.”

 

 

 


	6. Jump over the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter Over the Moon.

When Gabriel rides in on a motorcycle and takes to the stage to a huge round of applause from the gathered artists, squatters and hangers-on from the buildings around their apartment, Sam feels a sinking in his stomach.

The cops are already standing around inside the performance space, waiting for any excuse to start closing the place down on Crowley and Cyber Industries behalf -  and Crowley is with them, along with two guys in suits who look pissed and rich.

The whole fucking place is a powder keg of the poor and the douchey, and uniting both camps is Gabriel himself, standing on stage and grinning at his audience, leather jacket shining under the spotlight, looking twinkley eyed and mischievous and...

“You’re drooling,” Dean says, slapping him on the shoulder, “he ain’t that hot.”

“Thanks.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel better, guy’s just a douche.”

Sam glances around at the rest of the crowd, “Pretty full house, I think that’s Benny over there with his lady friend, oh, and that Castiel guy.”

He doesn’t miss how quickly Dean looks around. “Where?”

“Over by the pillar...you like him, don’t you?”

Dean turns back to him with a shrug.

“You’re doing a crappy job of hiding it.”

“I just don’t want to run into him, OK?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“So, you hoping that Kali not being here tonight means she and Gabriel are through?”

Sam looks anywhere but at Dean.

“Seriously Sam, you need to find a way to grow a pair, or hire a pair, or trade some of your estrogen in for some fucking balls.”

“Balls is kind of a theme for you today.”

“Balls are one of the biggest themes of my life – because, life itself is balls.”

“Wow, that was deep.”

“That’s what Kali said to your boytoy.”

Dean’s only joking but Sam still feels a stab of grief. He was humiliated when Gabriel left, Dean knows that, so why is he being such a dick? Sam knows Dean only actively tries to annoy him to distract him for something, and he doesn’t need three guesses to work out what.

Dean nudges him. “Hey, just messing with you.”

“Can you not?”

“OK, sure, no need to be a bitch about it.”

The lights come down, and Gabriel starts his performance.

Broadly speaking, it is about cows.

Last night I had a dream  
I found myself in a desert  
Called Cyberland

It was hot  
My canteen had sprung a leak  
And I was thirsty

Out of the abyss  
Walked a cow, Elsie  
I asked if she had  
Anything to drink

She said, "I'm forbidden  
To produce milk  
In Cyberland, we only drink  
Diet Coke"

Dean leant on his shoulder and tried to make himself heard over the steady pulse of the music and reverb on Gabriel’s mic. “I don’t really get performance art...what is happening here?”

“Well, it’s a performance, but it’s not art,” Sam says back.

She said, "Only thing to do  
Is jump over the moon"  
"They've closed everything  
Real down"

"Like barns and troughs  
And performance spaces  
And replaced it all with lies  
And rules and virtual life  
But there is a way out"

After that, Sam just kind of watches Dean’s reaction so what’s happening. There’s a lot of talk about cows and Sam kinds of thinks Gabe is comparing him and Dean to a dish and a spoon – or that he’s referring to some other musician and film maker in the audience, which seems unlikely. And right around the point that he’s bending backwards and pretending to drink from a giant udder, Sam wishes he could take his camera off of the performance and train it on Dean, because his face is distorted with both horror and fear.

And that’s when Gabriel starts to moo.

“Come on, moo with me,” he beckons to the reluctant audience of posers, homeless artists and struggling actors.

Someone moos.

“Yes! Come on sir, moo. That’s right,” a smattering of moos leap out of the audience. “Everyone moo together!”

“I wish I was rich,” Dean says in Sam’s ear.

“So you wouldn’t have to come to rent protests?”

“So I could buy a gun.”

The mooing reaches ear-splitting volume, and Sam doesn’t know what happens first, whether someone pushes Crowley or if he just shoves past someone to try and leave (Sam doesn’t blame him, amongst other things, Gabriel has called him a lapdog and a prostitute) but suddenly there’s a swell of movement through the crowd, and a bottle breaks as it drops from someone’s hand. Then the cops start pushing the crowd back, breaking it up, people are still mooing, and there’s shouting and struggling and then they’re in the middle of a riot, and Dean’s not next to him anymore.

Sam turns against the tide of people and sees Gabriel still on stage, shouting pointlessly for calm as his mic shorts out and a bottle flung from somewhere shatters one of the TV screens that were showing part of his performance.

Sam backs towards the stage, scrambles out of the mass of people and cops, and Gabriel grabs his hand.

“I didn’t want this to happen,” he shouts over the noise, and Sam doesn’t know if he means the break-up or the riot or both. He just holds his camera up and keeps filming.

In the crowd he spots Dean, arms thrown out as he shepherds Missy and Benny to the side door and out into the street, their eyes meet for a moment and Sam motions that he’s good, Dean can take off and he’ll meet him as they planned earlier, at the cafe around the corner. Dean gives him the ‘OK’ signal and stumbles out into the cold.

Sam tapes until he runs out of film, and by that time the cops have dragged people away, and everyone else has fled. He takes the camera from his eye and lets the awful silence of the performance space, the warehouse, roll over him. There’s broken glass on the floor, and something that might be wine, or blood, spreading over the concrete.

“Oh shit.”

Gabriel barely breathes the words, but Sam turns to him so fast he almost drops the camera.

“Not the effect you were going for?”

“I just...didn’t think this would happen.”

“You never do.”

Sam jumps down from the stage and heads for the door.

“Sam!”

He stops, doesn’t want to, but he does, and looks back.

“What?”

“Are you, going to the cafe, meeting up with everyone?”

“Yeah.”

“...Can I walk with you?”

“Why, scared of the cops cracking your head open?”

“No, I just...want to walk with you.”

“Where’s Kali?”

Gabriel sighs as he climbs down from the stage. “She took her cash and her beamer and moved on to someone with more prospects, fewer garbage bags of props.”

“Can’t blame her.”

“Oh I don’t, was punching above my weight with her anyway. I keep going for people who’re better than me, that’s my problem.”

Sam glares. “That supposed to smooth everything over?”

“Hey, who’s interested in smooth?” Gabriel half smirks, “come on, I was an asshole, at least let me buy you a drink, maybe some fries...half a roast chicken, you look like you could eat.”

Sam sighs. “It’s a free country, buy me whatever you want. But if you’re walking with me, you’re gonna have to keep up.”

“I can do that!” Gabriel says, bounding after him.

Behind them a cowbell falls from the stage, clanging on the floor of the empty warehouse.

 


	7. La Vie Boheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter La Vie Boheme

To days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something out of nothing  
The need to express, to communicate  
To going against the grain, going insane, going mad

To loving tension, no pension, to more than one dimension  
To starving for attention hating convention, hating pretension  
Not to mention of course hating dear old mom and dad

The cafe is alive with people from the protest. Dean gets stopped at the door, something about how he and Sam never order food or drinks when they come in, only tap water and other people’s untouched fries. He flashes a ten dollar bill promises to buy a beer (like hell, that bill is his food money for the next week) and finds a seat at a long table that some of the protest people have hastily formed out of the small, intimate bare wood tables.

It’s a hipster place, bright walls and prints and quinoa and bean sprouts. Sam’s heaven, Dean’s idea of hell.  The people around him are wearing hemp, freaking hemp, and tie dye and vegan shoes. Dean’s wearing his leather jacket and attracting some irritated looks. Hey, it’s not his fault he wears dead cow, has short hair and washes with, you know, actual soap – not rocks or whatever.

A glass of beer slides onto the table in front of him, followed by a basket of fries -  hot and greasy, covered in salt and black pepper. Dean’s whole mouth fills with saliva.

“Hey, you get out of there ok?”

It’s Castiel, in his usual shaggy sweater, jeans and thick smoky eyeliner. There’s an ice cream sundae of a hat on his head, tufts of soft, dark hair sticking out over his forehead.

“Yeah, you?”

“Got shoved a little, someone tore my shirt, see?” He lifts the sweater, shows him the washed-to-holes tshirt with a Chinese lucky cat on it. Torn across the stomach.

“Bunch of hysterical hippies.” Dean mutters.

“Hey, those are my people.” Castiel snags a fry, not looking upset at all, and bites it cleanly in two. “The beer’s for you, by the way.”

“You come into some cash?”

Castiel shrugs. “A little, generous tippers - I got new hot pants at the Good Will, they’ve already paid for themselves.”

Dean manages to raise a smile, half of one anyway. He doesn’t for one moment think that Cas has the spare cash lying around to just buy beers for everyone he meets. Not with a habit like that. Dean glances away, not wanting to see the sight glassiness in Cas’s eyes. That’s when he sees the table at the back, with Crowley and his two friends sitting at it, drinking wine and talking earnestly in lowered voices.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says.

“What?” Castiel follows his gaze, “oh, well, he has some serious balls.”

The door opens, and everyone cheers as Gabriel enters, followed by a sheepish looking Sam.

“Thank you, Thank you,” Gabriel bows, accepts a shot and leaps to the head of the table. “You were all wonderful!”

Sam makes his way to Dean and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Get here ok?”

“Yeah, but Crowley and his new buddies are stinking up the place with cigars lit off hundreds,” Dean says, directing Sam’s gaze to the rear of the cafe.

“Crap. You know, when Gabriel see them, he’s gonna-”

“Well, would you look who it is?” Gabriel calls, leaping up into the table and strutting down its length while people quickly move beers, bowls of nuts and plates of vegan chow out of his way. Dean grabs his beer and turns to watch the show. Because everything involving Gabriel is a show.

“Crowley, buddy, you don’t belong here anymore,” Gabriel says, “not now you’ve got the cash to buy and sell everyone in here, which, oh yeah, you’ve already done.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Get down Gabriel, shouldn’t you and your friends be starting another riot somewhere? Taking drugs and passing out in the street? Maybe you’d like to find a wall to piss up?”

“Oooh, someone’s gotten classy. Don’t forget, six months ago it was you spraying ‘Fuck Wal-Mart’ on that city bus and taking acid at the park.”

Crowley’s friends don’t look too pleased to hear that. Well, they’re both over fifty, probably only have about six grey hair follicles between them and both have stars and stripes lapel pins, which practically screams ‘racial purity’ and whole host of other Fox news worthy ideals.

Someone else climbs up beside Gabriel, a girl in a pink party dress with a gold wig on. “Go back to Wall Street fuck face!”

This cry is taken up by a few others. The waiter, who has been frantically motioning for Gabriel to get off the table, has gone for a cigarette, waiting for the performance to be over, and dreaming of a day when he can leave the crap pit that is the service industry, and become a chef.

“Settle down,” shouts one of Crowley’s buddies.

“Fuck off!” shout back at least six protestors.

Gabriel tugs down his jeans and moons the back table, to a table shaking level of applause and laughter. Even Dean claps.

“How about it boys?” he calls over his shoulder.

Someone whistles, someone else starts up with ‘We’re here, We’re queer, we can’t afford a beer!” Benny and Missy, late to the party but standing on a table of their own, kiss to more foot stamping and whoops. Two girls at the bar start making out and flipping off the back table. Five guys are doing the time warp over by the rest rooms, and someone has found the stereo with the ‘Do Not Touch’ sticker on it, and has cranked up the music.

There’s a whole chaos of boos, catcalls and cheers when Crowley and his asshole buddies abandon their table and flee.

Dean laughs along with the rest of the people at the table, pats his pocket to locate his cigarettes.

“Back in a sec,” he says to Sam.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says, “I’m not going to get arrested.”

“Yeah, but you might get stupid,” Dean says, nodding at Gabriel.

Sam scowls, but Dean is already stepping out of reach and shouldering his way to the back of the cafe, where there’s a door out to the alley. He’s almost there when someone grabs his arm, and he turns to find Castiel clutching his elbow.

“Hey, did I do something wrong?” Cas asks, “you just, ignored me, when Sam showed up. You’re the one that told me about this place to begin with.”

Dean shrugs. “Just...you know. Trying not to get involved.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Involved? You mean you don’t want me to think you’re interested, when you clearly are?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Listen, I’ve got a ton of shit to deal with, I don’t need some kid who doesn’t know the half of it-”

An electronic beeping has Castiel reaching for his pocket, tugging out his cellphone and cancelling an alarm. From the other pocket comes a pill bottle, and he dry swallows some pills in quick succession. Familiar pills. Dean’s not on them anymore, but back when he was first diagnosed, they were what they tried him out on.

“You...” he starts.

“Me.” Cas says, putting the pills away and smoothing his stupid sweater down over his jeans. “You?”

“Me,” Dean nods.

Castiel reaches for him again, this time taking his hand. “Come outside with me?”

Dean nods again, turns to the door and pushes it open, stepping out of the bright chaos of the cafe, into the frigid night air, where snow is falling in the silence.


End file.
